


You Can't Find Your Name In The Script

by inverts



Series: At The Bottom Of A Wishing Well Was A Secret That We Dare Not Speak Out Loud [5]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Fighting, Gen, POV Second Person, Species Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8058181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inverts/pseuds/inverts
Summary: “Work with me, beautiful,” Mettaton says, after your silence drags out for too long. “I can’t put together a documentary after you’re gone if you won’t answer any interview questions!” He pauses, then, tapping a contemplative finger under his monitors. “Well, actually, I could, but I’d still like to get as much footage as possible while you’re still here.”He’s an entertainer, though—you can’t really trust what he says. He’ll put his own spin on things. You’ll have to be critical, and take things with a grain of salt. --In which the fallen human Asriel remains oblivious, Mettaton reveals a plot twist, Frisk blows a fuse, and Chara has had enough of this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I keep forgetting to say this, but I've been doing a bunch of fanart for this AU, which is all contained in the [series: baby boss monsters](http://inverts.tumblr.com/tagged/series:-baby-boss-monsters/) tag on my tumblr. Including a fanart for part 3, [of children taking a nap on a sofa.](http://inverts.tumblr.com/post/149732922555/it-is-likely-that-one-or-both-of-these-children)
> 
> Also, the wonderful tumblr user truereset (AO3 user [whittler_of_words](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whittler_of_words/)) drew a [lovely fanart of dear sweet human Asriel!](http://inverts.tumblr.com/post/144977013295/beforuskanaya-i-drew-inverts-human-asriel) Go appreciate it, b/c it's awesome.
> 
> With regards to the fic: I managed to get parts 3, 4, and 5 out in relatively quick succession, but I'm sorry to tell you that I'm about to be very busy, and so parts 6, 7, and 8 will probably not show up until November or December. I'm very excited about them, though, so I hope they'll be worth the wait. 
> 
> **Content warning** for this chapter: a character violently loses their temper. It's implied that this is not the first time. Tread carefully if needed.
> 
> \--
> 
> Let's skip the charades. You're seeing right through me anyway. [Can we just speak plain?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pr9XDB6glRk)

“Alphys texted. She wants us to stop by her lab,” Undyne says. Chara opens their mouth, and Undyne cuts them off. “Before you start whining, she said it’s important. Besides,” and she looks back over her shoulder at you, “I think the human might melt if we don’t take a break soon, and Alphys’s lab has air conditioning.”

You seriously consider sticking your tongue out at her, but you’re also seriously concerned your tongue might dry up and disintegrate into ash if you open your mouth, so you settle for glaring. She’s already turned to face forward again, anyway, so she misses your glowering, but that’s okay. You’re certain she would have only laughed at you. Still, you’re not the only one affected by the heat. Undyne is sweating—it’s easy to see, on her forehead and biceps—but she’s going strong regardless, striding through the sweltering caverns with the same ease that she demonstrated plowing through the marsh in that full suit of armour. Somehow Frisk and Chara, despite all that soft fur, seem completely unhindered by the temperature. You wonder if they even  _ can _ sweat, or if, like dogs, they’ll start panting if they need to cool off.

And then there’s you, dragging your feet, your sweater damp once again, but not because you took another dip in the river. No, the river disappeared a few rooms back, dropping away into a pit that opened up alongside the pathway. The glowing rocks and bioluminescent flowers of the marsh were left behind as you continued to walk, and the ground became hard and dry under your shoes. You don’t want to believe that there’s lava flowing in the gulches and gorges that appear with greater frequency to either side of the path as the cavern walls once more expand outward, but the heat and faint red-orange tint to the light present a compelling case in favour of Mt. Ebott actually being a volcano. 

To say the least, you’ve figured out what Undyne meant when she suggested you change out of your sweater, but it’s not like you packed a bag for a sleepover. Now your sweater sticks to your skin, affixed to your back and arms with a layer of your own gross sweat. Your pants, too, cling to your legs with each step, and your bangs have started to stick to your forehead. You’re pretty sure you felt a droplet fall off your nose just now. How Frisk isn’t disgusted with still holding your clammy hand, you’ve no idea. 

You thought about taking your sweater off, but then everyone would see your twiggy arms and utter lack of muscle, and Undyne’s laughed at you enough already. You're already gross and sweaty, so it's fine if you stay that way.

“As long as she doesn’t start talking about how much she hates Mew Mew Kissy Cutie 2 again,” Chara is grumbling, and they cross their arms. “Just because she can’t appreciate a fully fleshed out character arc doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to put up with her bad opinions.”

Undyne throws her head back, laughing uproariously, and you inch a little closer to Frisk. “You’re both total  _ nerds_!” she crows gleefully, and Chara huffs. 

“Can’t we come back to see her after we get Asriel to the barrier, at least?” they ask. 

You’re in favour of this idea, but Undyne shakes her head. “She specifically said she needed to talk to you while the human’s still with you.”

“Are you serious,” says Chara, straightening up out of their sulk. “She just wants to see him up close, I bet!”

Frisk giggles, startling you. It takes Chara by surprise, too, as they spin around. Frisk shrugs under both of your stares. “No harm,” they say. “Asriel’s melting. Needs a break. Okay if it makes Dr. Alphys happy, too.”

Chara sighs, dramatic and put upon. “Fiiiine,” they grumble, slouching. “But only because Asriel needs to rest!”

You really want to object to being used as an excuse, but you’re not sure how much longer you can manage in this heat, honestly. It’s absurd that below Mt. Ebott there are so many different climates, and that you apparently have to cross through all of them to make your way home.

You arrive at another chasm, and that’s definitely lava down below. Or is it magma? You’re not in class right now, so you officially don’t care about the distinction. Whatever it is, you think that by all rights, there should be more than a tiny wooden bridge stretched across the dangerous gap. Your steps shrink, even as you see Undyne and Chara quickly cross, single-file and without issue. The bridge hardly even shakes under their steps. 

Frisk slows down as you do, looking back at you with the flat lines of their narrow eyes and unexpressive mouth, but they don’t pull at your hand. They simply stare, wordlessly, and cold shame spirals in your gut. Are you going to be a coward here, too? You offer Frisk a smile you know must be weak and watery, and take another step forward. They resume leading you along, the two of you stepping out onto that narrow bridge. You’re stiff legged as you walk, and as a result you nearly trip, but somehow you make it across. 

Once your feet are on actual ground again, though, you forget to feel relieved, staring at what must surely be a hallucination. Sure, the little snowy town looked like it could be straight out of a cheesy painting in a hotel room, not a fantasy movie as the ruins and the crumbling castle of the old capital appeared, and yes, everyone has cell phones, but this, here—this can’t be real. There’s absolutely no reason for a water cooler to be sitting outside, by itself, in the middle of a cave system.

Undyne marches over to it. You hadn’t known it was possible to aggressively fill a plastic cup with water, but now you do. She tosses it back and gulps noisily, as she does everything. You step gingerly toward the water cooler yourself, Frisk walking with you, still holding your hand. Undyne considerately steps back so you can have enough room, and you grab one of the cups off the little stack.

You hold your cup under the little spout and move to get the lever with your other hand, and Frisk’s fingers tighten around yours. When you look at them, they stare flatly back, expression unchanging and grip unyielding, even as you give your hand another few small tugs. 

“Um, Frisk…” you start, smiling weakly. They still don’t say anything or let go of your hand. “I can’t…” 

You trail off. Faced with their lack of reaction, your already feeble objections dry up in your mouth. Frisk looks from you to the water cooler, and then places their fingers on the small lever.

“Um,” you say, as they press down and water pours into the cup. “I guess that works?” 

They fill it most of the way before letting go, and then their head turns to watch you as you raise the cup to your lips. Feeling hot under the collar in a way that only has a little to do with the environment, you look away from them to drink, and then of course you almost choke on your first sip, which of course doesn’t make things any more awkward at all. Your face is extra warm as you quickly gulp down the rest of the water and wipe your mouth on your sleeve, before turning back to the monsters. There’s no trash can, and you’re not sure what to do with your cup, so you just hold it, letting your hand drop to your side. 

“Ready?” Undyne asks. “Alphys’s lab is just over that way. Think you can last that long?”

You only frown. But then, something occurs to you, and you ask, “How does Alphys—”

“Dr. Alphys!” Undyne interrupts to correct you.

“How does  _ Dr. _ Alphys,” you amend, fighting the urge to roll your eyes, “know I’m here?” Chara had told you not to announce your presence, and although all the Royal Guard might now know about you anyway, it doesn’t sound like this Dr. Alphys is a member. 

“Why, that’s obvious, beautiful! You’re on camera!”

You spin fast enough that you wind up yanking Frisk in a half circle around you. They stumble to lean on you, but you don’t look to check if they’re okay, your attention stuck on the new monster that’s appeared. In front of you stands what looks like a first-grader’s attempt at making a robot halloween costume for themself. The giant metal box balances on a single wheel, and is big enough that you could probably fit inside it, were you so inclined. (You’re not.) The small screens on its front flash between red and yellow, and its arms are noodly tubes ending in strangely human-like hands, one of which holds a cordless microphone.  _ Is _ this even a monster? Does a robot count?

“Give us a big smile, gorgeous,” the robot encourages, pointing to you with its free hand. You don’t actually see any cameras anywhere around you, but you’re also gaping instead of smiling, so there’s that.

“Mettaton, what are you doing!” Chara yells, rushing over to stand between you and the robot. They’re definitely addressing it like a person, so you guess it must be a monster after all.

“I could ask you the same, your highness!” says the robot, hand on its hip and somehow maintaining its balance even as it tilts on its single leg. The hand holding the microphone waggles a finger down at Chara, as the robot reprimands, “How could you keep something this big to yourself?”

“Huh?” you ask, intelligently. Surely they’re not talking about you. You’re not the first human to fall into the mountain, and yeah, probably not everybody gets walked home by the heirs to the throne, but there’s definitely something you’re missing here.

“Mettaton,” Frisk says, in lieu of an answer. They’ve regained their balance, though they remain uncomfortably close to you. “Live broadcast?”

“Oh, no, darling!” The robot—Mettaton?—waves a hand dismissively. “This is much too important to air without careful presentation! I almost couldn’t believe my eyes, when I saw this sweetheart on Alphys’s monitors!” 

“Sweetheart?” you repeat. 

“It’s a shame I didn’t find out until now,” the robot goes on, as though you haven’t said a word. “So many missed opportunities! But at least we’ll have plenty of b-roll footage to cut in later.” 

Frisk nods, and Chara picks up where they left off. “Run  _ everything _ by us before you air it,” they order. 

“If I must,” and somehow the robotic, autotuned voice seems to sigh the resigned acceptance out. “But don’t make me wait too long, darlings! News this exciting  _ needs _ to be shared! Think what it will mean to everyone!”

“What are you  _ talking about_?” you demand, and then freeze when three pairs of eyes and an arrangement of red and yellow monitors all pin their gazes on you. Ah. You might have raised your voice a bit. 

Behind you, Undyne is chuckling, making some comment about you actually having a tiny bit of spine after all. Frisk and Chara exchange a look that, despite their animal-like features, makes you think of when Mom and Dad are trying to figure out how to explain something to you. Specifically, something they know you’re not going to like hearing, such as why you have to miss school for a holiday nobody else in town celebrates and even though your teacher scheduled your group project presentation for that day.

Chara turns to you first, smile in place. “Asriel, this is Mettaton. He is something of a celebrity.” You note the pronoun, even as you wonder why a robot has gendered pronouns in the first place. It’s a  _ robot_; if there were anyone you’d guess to refer to as ‘it’ or ‘they,’ a robot would be at the top of the list.

“Does funny TV shows,” Frisk adds, oblivious to the course of your thoughts.

“Your highness!” Mettaton objects, raising a hand as if holding it to a non-existent forehead and swooning. “My range is so much more than simply  _ funny _ TV shows! MTT Productions run the gamut from romance to horror, and even educational programmes! I’m a star in every genre!”

Wow. And you thought Papyrus was full of himself. Frisk hides their mouth behind one raised paw as they giggle quietly, and Chara continues as if they had not been interrupted. “He also often provides news coverage of current events. I am sure you can imagine, but life under Mt. Ebott can sometimes become quite stagnant. Truth be told, your arrival is the most excitement we’ve had in months.”

Oh. That does make a certain amount of sense. There have been times when the local news station in town has had to resort to stories about schoolchildren discovering kittens behind a building, or following you and your family around on your dad’s birthday, because nothing much else newsworthy has happened lately. At least news crews aren’t allowed to follow you around when you’re by yourself, or take photos or record video of you alone, because you’re still a minor, but whenever you’re out with Mom or Dad, you still have to be really careful. 

So you’d like to tell Mettaton you’ll pass, you’ve had enough of being on the news, but even though it seems like it happened ages ago, Papyrus’s excitement at learning you were human is still fresh in your memory. And you know how stifling it can be, stuck in a small place where every resident knows each other and nothing ever happens. You’d still rather not take the time to sit down and do an interview or anything like that—you’ve had enough delays—but if this robot wants to follow you around with a camera so he can present a news story later, after you’ve safely left the mountain, you guess that’s fine.

You give him one of your practiced smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Mettaton.” You start to reach out to offer a handshake, but Frisk’s paw is still holding your right hand. 

“It’s good to meet you as well, beautiful!” Mettaton’s many screens flash red and yellow, the shape of an M forming across the monitors. “Frisk, be a dear and let me shake the human’s hand.”

Frisk makes a little huff of annoyance, but they finally remove their fingers from yours. You quickly wipe your palm on your jeans, but your hand is still sweaty when you hold it out. Then again, Mettaton is a robot, and he appears to be wearing gloves, at that. Your clammy hands probably don’t matter in this situation. 

His hand closes around yours, and all of his screens glow red, no longer flashing. “Oh, silly me! I forgot to mention!” His other hand taps a finger at his lower monitors, and his voice takes a falsely pensive lilt. “We’re not doing a news segment today.”

“Mettaton,” Chara warns, their voice low. 

“I so rarely get to work with a co-star who I know will be able to hold the audience’s attention as well as I can,” he croons, giving your arm a yank. You’re pulled off balance, and as you stumble forward, Mettaton raises his arm as though leading a dance partner through a spin. Your hand still trapped in his, you have no choice but to follow, and your feet tangle as he twists you around, then pulls you in. With a yelp and a thump, your back hits his hard metal casing. The jointless metal tube of his arm is much stronger than it looks; you squirm and push and wiggle, but the limb is unyielding as the safety restraints on a roller coaster. Your own arm is held across your chest under his, your fingers squeezed in a hard grip. Through the glove, you can definitely feel the metal joints constructing his hand, and one of his dials is digging into your spine. You drop your plastic cup as your other hand comes up to try to pry his arm off, but your fingers only slide on the smooth metal, unable to get a grip with any strength to it. 

“Mettaton!” Frisk snarls, lunging. Your feet fly out from under you as Mettaton wheels backward and away, neatly evading the boss monster. You shriek, and Chara darts after you, making a grab that misses by inches.

“Stop!” Chara shouts, and you hear a noise that makes you scream again: the sound of a wheel rapidly rolling over wooden planks. Mettaton is racing  _ backward _ over that narrow bridge you crossed earlier. You’re going to  _ die_. You’re going to fall off into the lava and die and your parents won’t ever know what happened to you.

“Help me!” you cry, your voice shrill and embarrassing, kicking your dangling feet and twisting. Frisk reaches the bridge at the same instant Chara does, and when neither of them yields to let the other go first, they shove and elbow each other, trying to push their way forward onto the bridge that’s not wide enough to admit them both.

It becomes quickly apparent when Frisk and Chara’s number one priority shifts from saving you, to stopping each other. Mettaton slows to a stop, though your feet still don’t reach the wooden slats under you; he must have lifted you up in his retreat. “Typical,” he murmurs. You stare, aghast, at the two scuffling boss monsters. Their pursuit of you has come to a complete halt mere moments after it began, in favour of their fight. The robot gives another of those unnecessary sighs. “We’ll have to edit this in post.”

You twist and struggle again, to no effect. You don’t know why Mettaton stopped once Frisk and Chara gave up the chase, when it’s the perfect opportunity for him to flee unopposed, but you don’t care, either. “Let me  _ go_!” you demand, aiming for your mom’s commanding tone or Chara’s threatening voice or Frisk’s forceful resonance. All you get is your own whining pitch, and your continued attempts to wiggle your fingers free or slip out of the robot’s grip remain useless. 

“Hush,” Mettaton says, and it’s clear he’s hardly paying you any attention. Then, at a much greater volume, “Your highnesses! If you ever want to see your precious human again, you’ll meet me on the roof of the MTT Resort!” The arm not holding you points dramatically at the two young monsters who’ve stopped mid-fight at Mettaton’s proclamation, Frisk with Chara’s ear still tight in one fist, Chara with a hand spread over Frisk’s face, claws out. “Leave your Guard behind,” he adds, and Undyne’s lip rises in a furious snarl.

“You better think long and hard about what you’re doing, Mettaton!” Undyne yells. “You’re defying the heirs to the throne! If you—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Mettaton dismisses, waving his hand in little shooing motions. Somewhere along the way, he must have discarded the microphone. “But I don’t think I’ll need to worry much about their highnesses, once I take the human’s soul and cross the barrier myself.”

Your struggles come to an immediate stop, dread jamming all your joints. “What?” you whisper. 

“Anyway, toodles!” Mettaton flutters his fingers in a careless wave, and you become aware of a noise not dissimilar from the rush of falling water. It quickly grows to a roar, and that’s the only warning you get before everything starts shaking and the bridge falls away from beneath your feet. Wind rushes through your hair as you shriek again, convinced the bridge has given out under Mettaton’s weight—he must weigh a metric Metta- _tonne_ , and you’re going to die thinking up the lamest of puns—but your breath runs out and somehow you’re  _ not _ sinking into the lava and burning to a painful death. Air is still washing coolly over your sweat-damp skin, and down on the ground so far below you, Chara and Frisk have broken apart to crane their necks back to stare up at you, dismay clear in the slant of Chara’s open mouth and the furrow of their eyebrows. 

You didn’t fall. You’re  _ flying. _ Frisk and Chara quickly shrink as more distance is put between you, and you’re just able to see Chara’s teeth come together in anger. “Asriel!” they scream, their voice already small and distant.

“Chara!” you yell back, unsure if they can even still hear you. “Frisk! Help!”

Mettaton rounds a rock formation, jagged stalagmites and boulders rising up from the lava, and you can no longer see your friends. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I don’t wanna wear a  _ dress_,” you grumble yet again.

Mettaton throws his arms up, screens flashing. “It isn’t a  _ dress_, it’s a prince’s traditional robes! Or at least, an accurate recreation.” His emotive voice makes up for his lack of a face and limited body language, packed full of exasperation and impatience. “How else are we supposed to show that you’re a kidnapped royal heir, dreaming of the day when dashing young knights come to rescue you?”

“I’m not any of those things!” you yell, kicking your bound feet. Not with any real force, though; as soon as Mettaton had set you down on the MTT Resort rooftop, you’d turned around and kicked him. Your toes are still aching. 

Now your ankles are tied together, thick braided rope wrapped and overlapping several times over your pant legs, though with how low the dress— _robe_ —hangs, you can only see your bindings if you pull the fabric up. Your hands, too, are restrained, and another rope is wrapped around your torso and upper arms, preventing you from reaching anything higher than your own shoulders. None of the restraints hurt, and they’re not cutting off your circulation, but they’re all tied tight enough that you can’t slip out of them, offering no slack or give to work them over your thumbs or under your heels. 

Everything is topped off, naturally, by the enormous bomb that you’ve been tied to. If you twist a little and crane your head at an angle that really strains your neck, you can see the digital numeric display of the timer, stuck at two minutes.

“You’re definitely a royal  _ pain_,” Mettaton grumbles. “But I so  _ rarely _ get to play the villain.” He twirls the mustache he’s stuck onto his metal front just under the bottom row of screens, and his voice takes on a long-suffering tone. “If putting up with such a prima donna co-star is the price I have to pay, so be it.”

You roll your eyes and groan, before looking to the little television that Mettaton’s set up to one side. Apparently it’s hooked up to Dr. Alphys’s camera feed—the same system that alerted Mettaton to your presence. Currently, however, instead of monitoring  _ you_, it displays Frisk and Chara, now standing before the large, glass, automatic doors of the MTT Resort. 

The Resort reminds you of one of the big hotels your family stayed at last time you were on vacation in a big city, though perhaps not quite as tall, in deference to the stalactites that hang above you. The inside has smooth shiny floors and a fountain and an elevator. There’s a receptionist desk, and a restaurant on the first floor, with mood lighting and aquariums in the walls and a stage for performers. It’s not the sort of thing you’d think of when imagining magic and monsters and curses and royal heirs. Then again, being held hostage by an evil, egotistical, TV-star robot with a built-in jetpack who says he’s going to steal your soul wasn’t something you were expecting out of your night, either. 

When Mettaton had rolled in through the resort doors, every monster had greeted him so cheerfully and with such obvious delight, you’d been stunned into simply watching as he drafted resort employees and patrons alike into setting up traps and obstacles for Frisk and Chara. All he’d had to say was that he’d gotten the royal heirs to agree to co-star in an action film, and everyone had rushed to help. By the time Mettaton had boarded the elevator, still holding you in one arm, the front lobby had been transformed, lasers and walls of fire blocking the way. 

Before going all the way up to the roof, you’d made a brief stop on one floor. As soon as the elevator doors had opened, you’d been swarmed by eager monsters wielding combs and foundation and the dress— _robe_ —and before you’d even realized your sweater had been replaced, you were being ushered back onto the elevator and to the roof. At some point, too, Chara and Frisk must have come across Mettaton’s employees—or the other way around—because on the screen, you can see that, like you, they’ve received costumes to fit the roles Mettaton’s assigned to everyone. Frisk is still garbed in blue and pink, and Chara retains their green and yellow, at least. But instead of long-sleeved polos with rips and a missing sleeve, or torn and dirty jeans and t-shirts, the two now wear outfits that remind you of some video game hero: matching tunics, belted at the waist and hanging down over pants that end just above their ankles, leaving their feet bare. You suppose that, monster royalty having no need for shoes, that’s why your own ‘princely robe’ didn’t come with any footwear. Your yellow sneakers that peek out from under the indigo robe are jarringly out of place.

On both Frisk and Chara’s chests, as well as your own, there is an embroidered emblem of three triangles arranged below a winged circle. You think you’ve seen something like it before, carved into the door that closed the ruins off from the snowy forest. 

“Frisk and Chara get pants,” you point out, well aware that you’re pouting, but also well beyond caring.

“You’re still wearing your pants under your robe!” Mettaton counters. He brings a hand up to rub his fingers against the top row of screens, akin to someone with a headache seeking relief. A moment later he straightens, all his monitors flashing yellow and blue, and he asks, “Does that outfit make you... uncomfortable?”

You open your mouth to say yes, obviously, but then you pause. From his tone of apparent sudden realization, he might be actually considering letting you have another costume if you confirm that you are uncomfortable. If you’re honest, though, more than half of your complaints have been because you know that if you whine about anything else, like being tied up, or being kidnapped, or how you really don’t want him kill you and to steal your soul, you’ll have to consider the danger you’re in. It’s much easier to pretend like the biggest problem you have to deal with right now is being shoved into clothing that doesn’t agree with you.

Not to mention that getting out of your sweater was a relief, and you do not want to put that damp, heavy thing back on. The roof of MTT Resort is nowhere near as hot as the cave room with the water cooler, but it’s still much too warm for a sweater. The robe, on the other hand, is a thinner fabric that actually breathes. And it’s a bit like a Halloween costume, when you think about it—the prince of a banished kingdom underground… it’s not you at all, so it’s all right if it’s something you wouldn’t normally choose to wear.

The real source of your hesitation, though, is the cape that hangs from your shoulders, coloured a rich purple at the top that fades to a deep black by the bottom hem, with a tall collar that stands higher than your chin. A silver star brooch fixes the cape in place just above your sternum, and despite the costume’s resemblance to a dress, you really wish your phone wasn’t broken. It’s a crime that you won’t be able to leave the underground with a selfie in this outfit; you bet that you look  _ so cool_.

“No. This is fine,” you mumble, bringing your tied hands up as far as they’ll go to fiddle with the metal star. 

“Well. I’m glad. I want you to give your best for this performance, and if the costume is a real problem, we’d have to address it before your heroes appear.”

“They’re not my heroes!” You’ve got a newfound understanding for the girls in your class who complained about video game princesses always getting kidnapped; being in the role of the kidnapped royal and awaiting rescue  _ sucks. _ No wonder none of them wanted to play any games with you. While you sulk over your predicament, Mettaton only tuts, rolling away to presumably prepare something else for Chara and Frisk’s arrival. You hunch your shoulders and turn your head so you can look at the camera feed again. Once Mettaton and you were on the roof, he’d had the elevators disabled, so the two royal heirs have quite a few flights of stairs to climb, and the monsters at the resort have left them plenty of hazards to deal with on the way. 

You’d thought watching Frisk deactivate traps in the ruins was impressive, but to watch Frisk and Chara together, as they duck under swinging axes and dart between electric lasers and leap over spike pits revealed as false floor tiles drop away… it’s an entirely different level. You’d think you were watching a summer blockbuster if you didn’t know better. Frisk seems to dodge the dangers without effort, slipping between giant blades and ducking under moving lasers at the last moment, leaving you a wreck of nerves each time. Chara, with gold magic flashing in their closed fists, destroys one of the laser terminals as soon as they’re near enough, giving them more room to leap over the stairs and avoid the pressure-plate trap tiles Frisk had set off as they scrambled up.

Together, both monsters finally make it to the landing of the second floor.

The resort is fifteen stories high. You think you might be here for a while.

Mettaton rolls back over to you and the bomb, having apparently finished preparing whatever else he’s set up for when Frisk and Chara finally reach you. His wheeled stand collapses down to bring him closer to your eye level, and he produces the same microphone he’d had when first meeting you. “While we’re waiting, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself!”

You can only stare. Mettaton’s screens flash various patterns, and his mustache is perfectly centered and immaculately curled. There’s no fake smile to let you know whether or not this is the lead-in to another joke where your existence is the punchline, or if it’s a sincere opener to an interview.

“Work with me, beautiful,” he says, after your silence drags out for too long. “I can’t put together a documentary after you’re gone if you won’t answer any interview questions!” He pauses, then, tapping a contemplative finger under his monitors. “Well, actually, I  _ could_, but I’d still like to get as much footage as possible while you’re still here.”

You hold up your tied hands and raise your eyebrows. Mettaton waves dismissively. “Don’t worry! We’re cropping the shot; nobody will know.”

With a heavy exhale of resignation, you lower your hands back down, presumably out of the frame. You’d wanted to avoid an interview, but really, answering some questions while you wait for Frisk and Chara is the least of your problems right now. 

“So, gorgeous,” Mettaton resumes, and once more he’s all entertainer, even his voice exuding glitter and glamour, “tell us about your journey through the underground!”

“It hasn’t been much of a journey,” you answer, remembering interview protocol and trying to repeat some of the question back, in case Mettaton has to cut out his own voice asking the question for whatever reason. “I fell and called for help. Frisk and Chara found me, and they offered to help me get back home.”

Mettaton’s screen flashes, and when he speaks again, it’s lacking much of the emotive quality you’ve come to associate with that robotic voice. “I see. And what do you know about the barrier? Tell us your thoughts.”

You want to look down and pluck at your sleeves, but you keep your head up. “Um… I know that humans made the barrier, after the war, and it keeps everyone trapped here.” Except you. You get to leave Mt. Ebott, and walk out under the stars and the moon, and go back home to your parents. Once again you’re overwhelmed with gratitude for Frisk and Chara’s efforts to help you. You’re not sure you’d be able to get past your jealousy to help someone else to do what was impossible for you. “I’m sorry. I hope Chara and Frisk can find a way to break it soon. Nobody deserves to be stuck under Mt. Ebott their whole life.”

“That’s very sweet of you!” Mettaton positively chirps. “I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s likely that one of them will be able to lead us to the surface very soon.”

Something about this statement rings false. Chara and Frisk had said they believed they could break the barrier, but to hear Mettaton tell it, freedom is imminent. He’s an entertainer, though—you can’t really trust what he says. He’ll put his own spin on things. You’ll have to be critical, and take things with a grain of salt. 

You glance again at the little TV to the side. Somehow, you’re not even surprised to see that the stairwell landing to the tenth floor has been replaced by a pool of water, frothing with teeth and fins. A rope hangs from the ceiling, likely meant for Frisk and Chara to leap onto and use to cross to the other side. Your breath catches in your throat as Frisk, pausing barely a second to look over the obstacle before them, takes a running jump over the edge. Their outstretched paws close around the rope, and their toes skim the water as they swing across, piranha-like monsters snapping at empty air in their wake. 

“On that note,” Mettaton says, before you can watch Chara’s attempt to cross, and you bring your gaze back to the robot. Though it’s nothing more than a lead-in to the next question, something about his tone sets you on edge. “Which one do you think should inherit the throne?”

You almost start to answer, Frisk’s name on the tip of your tongue, but. No. That’s not right. Chara’s initiative, their quick decisions and utter confidence in themself, those are qualities a leader needs and that Frisk lacks. All the same, Frisk’s unshakable demeanor is preferable to Chara’s volatile reactions. They’re kids, same as you, but even so, you can’t imagine either of them ruling. Not alone, at any rate.

“Why does it only have to be one of them?” you ask. “There’s a King and Queen, right? Why can’t Frisk and Chara both rule together, the same way the King and Queen do?”

Mettaton’s screens dim, briefly, and gradients of red-orange-yellow ripple across the displays. He settles on what you’re starting to think of as a default face, checkerboard patterned red and yellow, and twirls his mustache. “It seems nobody’s told you about the prophecy, have they?”

You shake your head. Of  _ course _ nobody’s told you about something like that. You still don’t even know the full details of the curse on the royal family. (Still, it’s not like you’ve stopped to ask. You’re leaving soon, and never coming back here. It’s not your problem, and it doesn’t matter.)

“I’ll spare you a full recap—flashback episodes are such a waste of time, when we could be advancing the plot!” Actually, you kind of like it when shows finally get to revealing a character’s tragic backstory, but you keep that to yourself. It’s not relevant, and you want to hear this. Mettaton continues: “It’s fairly simple, when you get down to it. The prophecy said that one day, the curse on the Queen and King would be broken, and a child would appear to lead us to freedom and protect us. But when their highnesses were born, nobody knew: which child was the one from the prophecy?” He spreads his hands out in a helpless sort of gesture.

“That’s stupid,” you say.

Mettaton’s screens all flash very quickly, and he leans precariously toward you. “Oh?” he asks, drawing the sound out. “How rude…. Care to elaborate?”

You glare, pulling at your ropes. You’re not backing down. “Are you seriously telling me that everyone’s fine with letting Frisk and Chara fight all the time just because some old prophecy says there was only supposed to be one of them?” You wish you could stand up and yell in this robot’s dumb glowing face. You settle for straining against your bonds, glaring up at him. “That’s not right! You can’t pin everyone’s hopes and dreams on them, and then say only one of them actually matters! Everyone’s been acting like it’s fine to just wait and see which one of them comes out on top, but you can’t—how are they supposed to be happy like that?”

Mettaton’s voice is low, as he replies. “For many monsters, the hope that the prophecy gave them was all they had to keep them going their entire lives. It’s understandable that it’s blinded some to the fact that our young heirs are just children.”

There are tears at your eyes. You don’t know why; none of this is your problem. None of it’s going to change after you leave, so you don’t care. You’re only crying because you’re tired and hungry and tied to a bomb and everything keeps going wrong. 

But Frisk is your friend, and Chara might be too, and it’s not fair to them. You twist in your ropes again, more for show than out of any effort to break free. “They shouldn’t have to fight,” you sniff. “They don’t like it, either.”

You flinch as Mettaton’s hand comes down on your head, but the robot’s movements are slow and without force, simply ruffling your bangs. “Maybe they can find another way, then,” he says. There’s nothing condescending in his tone, no sarcasm or any hint he’s being anything but sincere. The glow of his screens seems softer than before.

The sound of a door slamming open echoes through the cavern. Mettaton’s hand disappears from your hair, and you whip your head up to look past him. Stepping out onto the wide roof, so small out in the open under the vast cavern ceiling, Frisk and Chara are all you can focus on. They’re breathing heavily, small rips and tears in the hems of their tunics and at their knees, but Chara’s eyes are wide and red and looking directly at you. You can see now the golden magic held in Chara’s fists is sharp and crisp, formed into the shape of twin daggers, while silver stars and crescents trail from Frisk’s fingers. 

“Frisk! Chara!” you shout, and you pull at your ropes, forgetting for a moment that you’re unable to simply get up and run to them. 

“Asriel!” Chara takes a step toward you, and then comes to an abrupt stop as though pinned down under the spotlight that’s appeared on them. All around the roof, pink and yellow lights are flipping on, and the loud and crisp noises of switches being thrown echo out as each beam of light flares up. The stalactites above you cast hard shadows where they cut through the spotlights, and Frisk and Chara hold their hands up in front of their eyes, Chara squinting. 

There are two spotlights trained on Mettaton as he moves, wheeling  slowly to the center of the roof, where he’s prepared an upraised platform surrounded by arrangements of roses. Naturally he comes to a stop right in the middle, throwing out his arms in a broad gesture. Yet more rose petals flutter down in gentle spirals around him, as he calls out, “There you are, darlings!” It’s spoken with the same jovial, carefree tone as one would use to welcome guests to a party. “I knew you’d step up to the challenge!” 

You wince at the terrible pun, thinking of all the stairs Chara and Frisk have just climbed. Even from across the roof, you can hear Frisk’s low growl start up, rumbling vibrations that send a chill down your spine, despite knowing they’re here to save you. Chara takes another step forward, pointing with a ferocity to rival the drama of any of Mettaton’s gestures, as they command, “Let Asriel go!”

“I’m afraid I have to decline,” Mettaton demurs. His back is to you, but from the way one of his arms bends, you can bet he’s twirling that stupid mustache again. “With this human’s soul, I’ll be able to cross the barrier. On the surface, I could reach an entirely new, untapped audience! I could become humanity’s biggest and brightest star!” He throws a hand skyward with a flourish, and you can’t help but raise your head to look at the earth and stone that the monsters have lived their whole lives below. 

It’s not fair, but it’s not  _ your _ fault! You didn’t trap them here, you’re not responsible for someone else’s actions, and it’s not your problem.

“Won’t let you,” Frisk snarls, advancing until they stand next to Chara. Under their curled fingers, magic swirls in rapid orbits, held at the ready. 

“Unfortunately, sweethearts, you’ll have to do more than simply talk if you want to stop this show.” He rolls back to the far end of the platform, and his metal arms extend without warning, burying his hands into the rose bouquet arrangement. Leaves and petals go flying, and Frisk and Chara visibly tense, watching. “This will be my last performance underground, so let’s end it with a bang!” With a whirring noise, his arms begin to retract. Flowers fall away to reveal a chainsaw in his hands, and his entire metal casing vibrates with it when it revs to life. “In two minutes, the bomb behind me will explode! If you can’t save your precious human before then, there won’t be much human left to save! How disturbing! How appalling! How  _ thrilling!_”

The spotlights rotate, drawing bright circles over the roof and between the stalactites, before one each settles on Frisk and Chara. Another beams down on you, and two more focus on Mettaton. You hear a beep, and jerk your head up to see; the glowing display now reads 01:59. 

“Ready, darlings? It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Mettaton yells, raising the chainsaw over his head and racing forward. Chara and Frisk dart out to either side in perfect synchronization, moving to flank Mettaton. You tug at your ropes even as you watch, unable to look away from the fight unfolding before you. 

Chara darts forward, ducking under the chainsaw and swinging up with one of their knives. A gold trail sparkles out in an arc behind their fist, and though the swipe of Chara’s blade clearly passes through Mettaton’s screens, the robot doesn’t slow for a moment in bringing the chainsaw down. You shriek, but Chara rolls easily out of the way. Not even their tunic is nicked, and they spring back up to their feet instantly, spinning back to face Mettaton, their knives up and at the ready. 

From behind Mettaton, Frisk flings their own silver magic, and the shooting stars hit Mettaton solidly in the back with an explosion of sparks. The robot staggers forward, but when the shimmering magic has dissipated, there’s not a single scrape or scorch mark on the smooth metal surface, and the big switch embedded into his back looks just as pristine as it did before.

“Those cute little butter knives and light shows won’t work on me, your highnesses,” Mettaton taunts, rotating on his wheel to keep both Frisk and Chara in his sights as he boasts. “This metal body Dr. Alphys built renders me invulnerable to attacks!” He laughs, and with a screech of rubber on cement, races toward Frisk. 

“Don’t hurt them!” you yell, trying in vain to wiggle free. Frisk dodges to one side as Mettaton brings the chainsaw down, and they tilt back at the waist like someone playing limbo to avoid the next swing. Mettaton’s momentum keeps him going, and Frisk takes the opportunity to jump out of his reach and retake the offensive, abandoning the structured stars in favour of raw fire. Mettaton meets the flames with his own jagged magic, bolts of lightning that strike through the fire and at Frisk’s feet, forcing them further back.

“Asriel, are you all right?” 

Chara’s voice comes from right next to you, and you yelp, jerking against your restraints. They snicker, but they pass up the opportunity to mock you further, instead grabbing the rope securing you to the bomb. Their other hand still holds one of the sharp, golden blades of their magic, a dagger that, up close, appears to be made entirely of light. They bring it up to saw at the braided cord, biting their lip in concentration.

You look up at the display on the bomb again—fifty-four seconds remain. Chara huffs as they continue sawing, and you squirm, nervous to have that knife so close to you. “Stay  _ still_,” Chara hisses at you almost immediately.

“Sorry,” you whisper, trying not to wiggle. Out on the roof, Frisk is still fighting Mettaton alone; he hasn’t appeared to notice that one of his opponents has decided they have better things to do. Each time he swings the chainsaw or sends more lightning at Frisk, they dodge with plenty of room to spare, but as they roll to their feet yet again, you can see their mouth hanging open as they pant, exhausted. The next volley of fire they fling at Mettaton is half the size of the shower of stars they pummeled him with earlier. “Hurry up,” you say.

“I’m  _ trying_!” Both of you freeze at Chara’s raised voice, but Mettaton doesn’t turn your way, still chasing after Frisk. Chara resumes sawing with renewed vigor, and you look up at them. Their fur is nearly as mussed as Frisk’s at this point, and smudges of dirt or ash darken one of their cheeks, the tip of an ear, their knuckles. Their tunic must have been pristine when they first received it from Mettaton’s employees, but now it’s as dirtied as the rest of them. You’re not even sure if your parents could salvage the clothing now. You didn’t watch most of their journey up the stairs, so you’ve no idea what other obstacles they had to face to make it here, but the effort it cost them is clear.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Shut up,” they mumble. Though the spotlights on you are tinted pink, you’d swear that Chara’s nose gets a little redder. 

There’s a snap, and you fall forward, the slack rope no longer holding you in place. Chara lets out a surprised yell, and they drop their knife as they lunge to catch you. Your fall comes to a stop with your face an inch from the hard surface of the roof, so close your bangs brush against it, but your nose is spared from yet another painful landing. With a grunt, Chara hefts you back up, and you let out an embarrassingly high pitched noise as, instead of helping you stand, they bend down and lift you, throwing you over one shoulder.

“You can just untie me now!” you say, definitely not yelling, certainly not wiggling, and Chara shakes their head.

“That bomb’s about to go off!” they say, grabbing your legs to hold you steady. “It’s easier if I just carry you!” You lift your head, and shut your mouth on any other objections you may have had; according to the display, there are only eight seconds left. “Frisk!” Chara yells, starting to run, “We’re leaving!”

There’s a loud, animalistic snarl, followed by the deafening screech of metal on metal. Chara comes to a jarring halt, their shoulder digging into your stomach unpleasantly, and you twist to try to look over their head, possibly elbowing them in the back of the neck in the process. “What happened? Are they okay?” you ask, panicked, and Chara drops you.

You tumble to the roof without ceremony, and the hard landing knocks yet another yelp out of you. You roll to a stop on your side instead of your face, at least, and even with your hands still bound, you can push yourself up to sort-of sitting and scoot around to look in the same direction Chara’s facing. You freeze, then, taking in the sight that brought Chara to their sudden stop, and you understand exactly why.

Frisk is standing on top of Mettaton’s screens, some of which have been cracked and blackened out, with their mouth hanging open as they take deep, ragged breaths. Under their feet, the robot is lying flat on his back, his wheel spinning uselessly in the air. The chainsaw, discarded off to the side, spits occasional sparks, its teeth feebly twitching around warped and bent metal. In each of Frisk’s hands, Mettaton’s detached arms hang limp, torn and ruined wires sticking out from where they used to connect to the robot’s metal body. 

Inexplicably, Mettaton’s mustache is still attached under his screens, perfectly coiffed. 

Above both monsters, silver flames hang suspended in the air, flickering ominously. Frisk’s eyebrows are drawn in, an angry furrow under their bangs, and their posture is hunched, tense. You hadn’t realized the chainsaw had stopped, because the constant, dangerous rumble of Frisk’s growl has replaced the sound of its electric revving. 

“Frisk,” says Chara, something wary and cautious in their voice. “Frisk, that’s one of our subjects.”

Frisk doesn’t move. Save for the flickering fire around them, and the spinning of Mettaton’s wheel, slowly coming to a stop, everything is so still as to be a photo. 

“Was gonna take the human’s soul,” says Frisk, their voice barely discernable from their continual growl. 

“Yes, but we’ve stopped that,” Chara points out. They glance surreptitiously back to the bomb, and you follow their gaze; the display lights blink at zero, but nothing’s happened. Before you can figure out what to make of that, Chara speaks again. “Look. Asriel’s right here. His soul’s just fine. You know how Mettaton likes his dramatics. I’m sure he never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

Frisk raises their head to look at you, and their shoulders slump. One at a time, the silver flames burn out, extinguishing themselves with little noises of displaced air. As the last fire goes out, Frisk drops to their knees, landing on Mettaton’s face with a metallic thump that makes you wince. 

Like everything else Frisk does, their face doesn't change when they start crying. Their shoulders jerk with their quiet sniffs, and they bring one hand up to wipe their eyes on their sleeve, Mettaton's arm still clutched in their paw. 

“Sorry,” they whisper. The noise travels easily across the rooftop, along with their tiny sobs. Their head bows, but you don’t need to see their face to know they’re in tears. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

“There, there. It's all right,” comes Mettaton's voice, and you startle. The screens that are still alight slowly shift from yellow to blue, and then back. “Things didn’t exactly go according to plan, but it’s nothing Dr Alphys can't fix.”

Frisk slumps forward, still trembling with tiny, hiccuping sobs. They hug Mettaton’s arms to their chest, and each time they sniff, shaking, Mettaton’s lifeless hands drag and flop across his flickering screens. “Sorry,” they repeat. “Didn't mean to.”

“You still  _ did _ it, whether you meant to or not,” Chara says, prickly and abrasive. They've crossed their arms as they frown at Frisk. “You can't change that by saying sorry.”

“I  _ know _ that,” sobs Frisk, their voice rising briefly before falling once more to ragged whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, darling. I’d be giving you a hug right now, if I could,” Mettaton says, and though you hear the sympathy in his voice and know it was meant as reassurance, Frisk’s entire body heaves with their next quiet cry. Mettaton shushes them, promising it’ll be all right, and while they don’t stop crying right away, their sniffs start to become less frequent, and their shoulders stop shaking so much.

It’s sort of messed up, you think, that Mettaton’s the one who’s been disarmed and defeated, but Frisk is the one being comforted. Chara shakes their head; you wonder if they feel the same. 

“This always happens,” Chara growls, as though to themself—certainly not loud enough for Frisk or Mettaton to hear, and they’re not looking at you when they say it. “They say they’re sorry, and everyone acts like suddenly everything’s  _ fine,  _ but if they were really sorry, they wouldn’t keep doing the same thing!”

“Chara,” you start, but you failed to plan anything else to say, and you trail off into awkward silence. When they look at you, it’s as if you’re watching yourself remember you’re supposed to be a good son and a model student. They drag a too-long smile onto their face, like forcing the wrong puzzle piece to snap into place even though its shape doesn’t quite match. 

You start to reach toward them. Where you meant to raise only one hand, the other is dragged, and you’re reminded that you’re still tied up. Chara snickers as you start tugging at the ropes on your wrists again, and you’re almost grateful; you’re not sure what you were trying to do. Hold their hand? Offer a hug? They’d probably shove you right back down.

“Maybe we should leave you like this,” they muse as they watch you struggle, their smile having shifted to the more familiar mocking one. Even as you frown up at them, some of the tension in your gut eases. You know how to deal with them like this. “Just carry you the rest of the way, so you can’t run off and get yourself lost again.” 

“Cha _ra_ ,” you groan, and they laugh, squatting down and taking hold of your wrists. 

“Don’t move,” they warn you, summoning their magic in the shape of a knife in their hand once more. You bend your wrists back to keep your fingers as clear of the glowing blade as you can, and Chara holds your arm with their right hand, sawing at the ropes with the knife held their left. It seems that these ropes come undone more easily than the ones that tied you to the bomb, though that could simply be a trick of perception due to the fact that you’re no longer panicking at every second that brings you closer to an explosive death. Once your hands are free, Chara moves quickly through the ropes looped around your torso, and they’re sawing at the ones keeping your ankles together when a shadow falls over you.

You look up to see Frisk standing next to you, still hugging Mettaton’s arms to their chest. They haven’t bothered wiping their face again, and tear tracks gleam on top of their fur. “Help get Mettaton back to Dr. Alphys?” they ask in a scratchy voice. 

Chara’s movements still. They don’t look up. “Why don’t you take him back to her lab while I take Asriel the rest of the way to the barrier,” they suggest, irate. When they start cutting again at the ropes, you flinch at the aggression in their movements. 

“No,” Frisk says. “If you go to the barrier, I go too.”

The last threads of the rope snap apart; you quickly scramble back and to your feet. You busy yourself brushing off your cape and your robe, and Chara slowly rises to stand as well. “So if I took Asriel the rest of the way now, you’d leave Mettaton stuck like this?” They look at Frisk now, frowning, their arms crossed. Frisk nods, and Chara huffs in annoyance. 

You look at the robot, who’s still laid out flat on his back, disarmed and helpless as a overturned turtle. Even his wheel has stopped spinning. “I thought he was invulnerable,” you mumble.

“We’re boss monsters,” says Chara, as if that explains everything. “Invulnerable’s a relative term.”

You’re pretty sure invulnerable is supposed to be a definite term, without room for interpretation, but this is not an argument worth having. You’re also pretty sure you don’t mind leaving Mettaton here, because he kidnapped you and tied you to a bomb. It might have been a dud, but he didn’t know that.

“Was he—could he really have taken my soul?” you ask, fidgeting with the star-shaped brooch of your cape. Both Mom and Dad’s religions say that you have a soul, but you’ve never actually given it that much thought. To have a monster talk about taking your soul, as though it’s an actual piece of you that can easily be removed—to hear  _ Frisk _ talk about Mettaton’s plan to take your soul, as if it were an actual threat, as if that were the cause of their anger….

Chara smiles at you. It’s not reassuring. “Don’t worry,” they tell you. “If he’d really wanted your soul, he would have taken it as soon as you guys flew off, instead of staging this elaborate showdown.”

“But he  _ could _ have taken it,” you press. Your other hand comes up to curl into a loose fist on your chest. 

Chara sighs. “I apologize, Asriel,” they say. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Your frozen insides sink down into your gut, leaving your chest emptied, hollowed. “I didn’t want to frighten you, but when I told you not to tell everyone you’re human, it was not only because some monsters still resent humans for trapping us down here.”

They turn to Frisk, accepting Mettaton’s detached limbs and tucking both under one arm to leave a hand free. Frisk darts back to the robot, and begins the process of trying to get him back upright, lifting the top of his large metal body to get his wheel back on the ground. Chara watches impassively, and they continue their explanation. “There are some monsters who think that, once we break the barrier, we should resume the war against humanity. There are some monsters who would seek to kill you and use your soul to that end.”

Frisk succeeds in pushing Mettaton mostly upright. They try to let go of him, and he starts to tilt again; quickly they rush in, bracing him back up. Slowly, they start to push him toward the door to the elevator; his wheel squeaks loudly in a way it did not, earlier.

You’re squeezing the metal star, its points digging into your fingers. Your breath sounds in your ear as if heard through old, echoing speakers. With their free hand, Chara reaches out and closes their fingers around yours, and warmth radiates from their touch, chasing away the cold jelly clogging your veins. 

“Don’t worry,” they say, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. You squeeze back, clinging to the confidence in their voice. “I’ll get you to the exit. I promise.”


End file.
